


Footsteps in the Sand

by potooyoutoo



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, pineapple, the ending of this show just..., things that maybe could have happened?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potooyoutoo/pseuds/potooyoutoo
Summary: Three potential endings.orThree attempts at rationalizing the ending of 91 Days... with varying results.





	1. Part One: Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. I have to say, I still have no idea what to think about the ending of 91 Days. But not as in "was that good? or bad? did I even like it?" More like "how do I wrap my head around this? the footprints? what is happening? I need to sleep."
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful editor, [National_Nobody](http://archiveofourown.org/users/National_Nobody/pseuds/National_Nobody)!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing... sadly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero doesn't know what he thinks anymore.

Nero stared across the fire at Avili-- no, Angelo's slumped form, pistol resting loosely in his fingers. The younger man looked even paler in the firelight, his eyes hollow as they gazed into the middle distance. A curl of bitter anger rose in Nero's chest, but it was followed by the sickly ooze of guilt. Why was he hesitating? What was he doing, galavanting around the country with the man who was responsible for destroying everything Nero held dear? Nero's grip on the pistol tightened for a moment before relaxing again as he let out a low sigh. Running a hand through his hair, he let his head fall back and looked up at the moon just peeking out from behind the clouds.

 

He could recall everything vividly. The rain on the day they buried Vanno. The caws of the crows as they pecked at Volpe's corpse. The surprised look on Frate's face. The weight of his father, dying in his arms. Everything was gone, burned away the moment Angelo pointed the gun at Don Galassia. Nero almost wanted to laugh at how perfectly everything had played out for the younger man. Well, almost perfectly. Nero can still recall the flash of unbridled fury and terror in Angelo's eyes when Nero had pressed the pistol to his chest, ordering him to kill Corteo. At the time, Nero had felt a twinge of sympathy for him, but now…

 

Nero glanced back towards the man who had played him like a fiddle, left his family in ruins, killed his friends, and crushed his hope... and felt nothing. Where was the flaring rage that had almost driven Nero to almost kill Angelo back in Cerotto's car? Where was the simmering hatred that had driven him this far?

 

“Why?” It came out as a whisper, hoarse and pained, almost desperate.

 

Angelo's eyes flickered to meet his, but as always, they gave nothing away.

 

Nero struggled to find words, finally murmuring, “Why didn't you kill me?”

 

Silence fell between them, cut only by the crackling of the fire and the chirping of crickets. For a long moment, Angelo didn't move, content to simply stare at Nero until the mafioso thought he might lose his mind. Feeling the embers of old anger flare for a moment, Nero grit his teeth, raising the pistol and pulling back the hammer. “Why?!”

 

Slowly, a tired smile spread across Angelo's face. “Why not?” Nero's eyes narrowed, but Angelo continued. “You have nothing left. Your family's dead or gone, same with your friends. You have nothing but the emptiness of knowing what you used to have.” Angelo's eyes reflected the firelight, flickering dangerously. “What's there left for me to kill?”

 

The words slipped between Nero's ribs, sharper than a knife, piercing his heart and wrenching the breath from his lungs. His expression must have mirrored his pain because Angelo smirked, leaning back to lay on the ground, bound hands tucked behind his head. Gritting his teeth, Nero watched as his hand shook, still holding the pistol leveled at Angelo's head. What was _wrong_ with him? Why didn't he just shoot Angelo and be free of this-- this...?

 

“Do it.”

 

Nero froze, eyes wide as Angelo tilted his head to stare at him, expression the same as that day in Cerotto's car when he had said those same words.

 

“Shoot me, Nero. For all the good it'll do you.”

 

Anger flared again and, before he knew it, Nero was crouching over Angelo, knees bracketing his hips and a hand at his throat. Pressing the pistol to Angelo's forehead, Nero growled, “You think I won't?”

 

Expression hard and flat, Angelo hissed, “Killing me won't ever fill that void you're feeling, but hey, maybe it'll drown out the deafening silence of guilt and loneliness for awhile.”

 

His hand was shaking again as Nero struggled to find fault in those words. But he knew, deep down, that what Angelo said was true. Killing him would bring Nero temporary relief, certainly, but then what would he be left with? Looking at Angelo now, exhausted, a hollow shell of the man he had once been, Nero knew what revenge did to a man, and he didn't want that. But then, what _did_ he want?

 

Staring down at Angelo's impassive face, Nero struggled with the nagging voice in the back of his mind which, until now, he'd been staunchly ignoring. _You're grieving the loss of your friends, of Frate and your father_ , it whispered, _but you're grieving the loss of your trust in Avilio more._

 

Was that it? Was he really more pained that the man he had embraced as his right hand, who he had thought of as a brother, had betrayed him, than at the deaths of his loved ones? His pride as a Vanetti screamed no, but deeper, down where he was just Nero, he knew. Avilio had grown into someone precious to him, a comrade and a friend, a brother. And when Angelo had shattered that veneer, a part of Nero had died with Avilio.

 

Hand trembling, Nero let the pistol slip off Angelo's forehead, his body slouched in defeat. Quietly, almost too softly to hear, he asked, “Was all of it a lie?”

 

Beneath him, Angelo blinked, seemingly taken off-guard by the resignation in Nero's voice. Chuckling mirthlessly, the hand around Angelo's throat loosened, fingers brushing lightly across his Adam's apple, his pulse. Nero could feel the shuddering breath Angelo took as his thumb brushed across his cheek. Unknowingly, Nero had begun to lean down, and suddenly their faces were mere inches apart and he could see the flecks of copper flickering in Angelo's golden eyes. Voice quavering, Nero breathed against Angelo's lips, “Was it all a lie, Angelo?”

 

His lips were far softer than Nero had imagined, cool and pliant beneath his. At some point, Nero's eyes had slid closed and he could feel tears pressing their way free. Beneath him, Angelo was utterly still, until slowly, cautiously, his hands rose to slip up over Nero's head and around his neck, settling uncertain against his shoulders. Tentatively, Angelo tilted his head, leaning into Nero's hand and slotting their lips together at a better angle. Pressing down more firmly, Nero felt a sort of desperate fervor come over him, burning through his whole being. He didn't know what he was doing, how it had come to this, but he knew that at this moment, it felt right. After a long moment, Nero drew back, breath coming hard and uneven as he stared down at Angelo's similarly flushed face. Sniffing, Nero became aware that he was crying, and a quick, heart-wrenching glance across Angelo's face told him he was crying, too. Tenderly, Nero's thumb brushed away a stray tear, causing Angelo's eyelashes to flutter. Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Nero rested his forehead against Angelo's, blue eyes meeting golden ones.

 

“What's happened to us?” he whispered, almost too afraid to speak.

 

For that moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies pressed so close, and the weight of those golden eyes holding Nero down to earth.


	2. Part Two: Four Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a game of reverse Russian Roulette.

He glances down at the can sitting innocently on the seat beside him. _Damn fucking pineapples_... Glancing back up at the road, Nero can't help the little smile that crosses his face as he recalls their first little road trip, eating pineapple straight from the can in the back of that rickety old wagon. Those had been better, brighter times. Simpler.

 

In the rearview mirror, he can see the car he just passed slow down.

 

 _Damnit. They just don't give up, do they?_ Nero continues as if he'd noticed nothing, eyes forward as he looks for the turn-off that would lead him south. He figures he'd be able to make it to Miami before night fall.

 

It is quieter in the car, not that they'd been particularly chatty when Angelo was there, but still. His absence is almost painfully obvious and Nero finds himself wishing it were Angelo instead of this stupid can of pineapple keeping him company. As it is, the miles pass in a blur of palm trees, sandy roads, and distracted humming. Every so often, Nero checks behind him, just to make sure his Galassia tail is still there.

 

It just wouldn't do to lose him too soon.

 

\--

 

He finds a little motel off the side of the road just inside the Miami city limits. The man at the desk doesn't ask any questions about the bloodstains on the sleeves of his shirt and Nero doesn't offer any small talk. Money changes hands and that's that.

 

Heading towards his room, Nero knocks a cigarette out of its package, lighting it up as he casually surveys the lot. There are a few cars there: his own stolen one (pineapple can standing guard in the front seat), a truck with farm produce stacked in the back under a tarp, a few other vehicles that look a little worse for the wear. He doesn't see his tail, but that doesn't mean he's not there.

 

Taking a drag, Nero scans the motel doors, looking for his number, rattling the key in his pocket. His room is the last in the row, the light over the door blinking irregularly. Sighing, Nero fits the key into the lock and has to shoulder the door open. The room is spartan: single bed with threadbare linens, a nightstand, lamp with a torn shade, and a chipped washbasin in the corner. Flicking the light on, he nudges the door closed, tossing his coat on the bed and glancing around. As far as locations for final stands go, it's not the worst. As he flops down on the bed, staring up at the cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling, Nero tries his best to ignore the creeping feeling that maybe he miscalculated.

 

As it is, he was already pushing his luck. He knew Galassia wouldn't let him wander around for much longer. They'd already afforded him quite a long leash. But he was tired, drained from the last few weeks and ready to find some closure. _Let 'em come_ , he thought, putting the cigarette out on the nightstand, _I'm tired of waiting._

 

\--

 

The sun had set an hour before he hears them.

 

They're not really trying to muffle their footsteps, and from the sounds, Nero's pretty sure there's three of them. Frowning, Nero shifts, cradling the pistol loosely in his hands. There's only four bullets left and he doesn't have extras. Briefly he wonders if he should have picked some up when he stopped to get gas. _Well, it doesn't matter now_.

 

Outside, the footsteps have stopped and the silence falls like the dimming lights in a theatre. It seems to drag on for hours, Nero staring at the flimsy wooden door, trying to even his breathing. The knock cuts through the silence sharp and clear, unfriendly and ominous.

 

“Nero Vanetti! It's time to end this! Come out calmly and we'll be sure to make it quick!”

 

He bites back the urge to laugh, allowing a little chuckle and nothing more. “Door's open, why don't you come in?”

 

Muffled voices can be heard through the door and Nero waits, tapping the pistol against his knee. He's actually surprised when the handle turns, one of the men shoving the door open and leading the way in with a drawn revolver. Training the weapon on Nero's head, the man glares, eyes flickering to the pistol. Tilting his head, Nero grins, waving as he tosses the weapon onto the musty carpet. The man with the revolver nods, motioning a second man into the room while the third waits outside. Nero recognizes the second man as his tail and gives him a little nod which is returned. There is an awkward silence, neither of the Galassia goons quite knowing what to make of the situation. Nero figures they had expected something a little more explosive. Maybe a shoot out. Anything, really.

 

“So, you shot him after all.”

 

Nero's eyes flicker to his tail who's eyeing the bloodstains on his sleeves. Glancing down, Nero considers them for a moment. “Yeah, guess so.”

 

“Hmph. Took your time,” the tail grunts, eyeing him almost pityingly.

 

Nero shrugs, leaning back with a tired smile. “He wanted to see the ocean. Figured I could give him that at least.”

 

The tail nods, glancing over at his partner who sighs. “S'pose we should get it over with. C'mon.” He walks over to Nero, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. As the tail ties his hands, the first man continues, “It'd be rude to ruin these good people's evening.”

 

They lead Nero out into the night, turning him towards the woods that surround the immediate area. Twigs crack beneath their feet as they make their way deeper into the trees, the path lit by watery moonlight struggling through the branches. Nero feels as if all his senses are heightened, sensory information flooding his brain. The smell of slowly rotting leaves, the roughness of the rope around his wrists, the sound of a soft breeze rustling the foliage. It's not long before the leader of their little group pulls up, gesturing for the others to get in position. The man leading Nero pushes him to his knees before backing away.

 

Taking a slow breath, Nero tilts his head up, staring down the barrel of the leader's revolver. He's afraid, but exhaustion overwhelms all other feelings and he smiles.

 

The gunshots split the night air in quick succession.

 

From his position on his knees, Nero can see exactly when his would-be executioner realizes what has happened. Even in the darkness, Nero can see the blood spreading across the pristine white material of the man's shirt. With a look of surprise, the man stumbles backward, crumpling to the ground as the revolver falls from his hand. Behind him, Nero hears the other two hit the ground, presumably sharing their leader's fate.

 

Footsteps. Then, the warm press of a gun against the back of his head.

 

“You're a fool, Nero Vanetti.”

 

Nero smiles, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of the moon through the trees.

 

\--

 

“I'm hungry.”

 

Nero purses his lips, glaring into the rearview mirror. There's not much food left in the car at the moment. A trip to the grocery store is probably a good idea. Reaching over to grab the can of pineapple from the seat beside him, Nero casually tosses it into the back seat, grinning at the grunt of pain he receives in return.

 

“There. That'll have to tide you over until we make it to the next town.”

 

There's some low grumbling in reply, but Nero's grin just widens. Outside the palms are giving way to birch and ash and as he hums softly to himself, listening to the sounds of Angelo working the can open in the back, Nero can't help but feel that things might turn out alright after all.


	3. Part Three: Blood in the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been here for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the one all those fun tags are about, but here's a reminder just in case.
> 
> This chapter contains some rather graphic depictions of gore, so if you're not really about that kind of thing, just re-read the first two chapters instead of reading this one. :)

Nero traces a hand gently down Angelo's cheek, heart twisting as the action garners no response. Sighing, he presses a quick kiss to Angelo's forehead and turns to the stove where a can of beans is heating steadily.

 

“I know it's not pineapple, but you should probably eat something. We're going to have to keep moving eventually and you'll want to have your strength up.”

 

Angelo doesn't reply, but Nero's grown used to the silence. Too many things have passed between them for conversation to come easily. Angelo may never speak to him again, but there's nothing he can do about it. Nero won't force it.

 

The beans warm quickly, and after taking a few quick bites, Nero sets the can down on the little nightstand. Just in case. Grabbing his coat, he calls, “I'll be back soon. Just stopping by the store for some more food.” Pulling open the door, Nero pauses, glancing back at Angelo briefly. “You should eat. Please?”

 

But Angelo is silent.

 

The screen door creaks behind him as Nero heads out into the quickly falling light.

 

\--

 

They find him on a beach in Florida, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, shoes and socks sitting neatly in the sand beside him. He looks older, dark shadows beneath his eyes and a hollow, empty expression on his face. A pistol dangles from his fingers, the barrel tracing patterns into the sand as his arms rest on his knees. He doesn't look up at the sound of their car doors or the shifting of sand beneath their feet. Strega motions for his men to approach cautiously, slowly walking up just behind and to his left.

 

“'It was all for nothing.'”

 

Strega pauses, staring down at the man in the sand.

 

“That's what he says, anyway. Heh.” Nero's eyes glance down at the pistol in his hand briefly before turning to fix Strega with a vacant stare. “Was it, though?”

 

Repressing the urge to back away, Strega ignores his words in favor of sneering, “I told you a king's reach was long, Vanetti. So what’re you gonna do now the past's caught up with you?”

 

Nero doesn't respond, simply fixes Strega with a stare that is dark and dangerous and utterly empty all at once. And for a moment, Strega is actually afraid. There is nothing left in those eyes of the jovial man who had just accepted the title of Don Vanetti, nothing left of the confident young mafioso who would do whatever it took to ensure his family's well being. Nero Vanetti had lost his family, his friends, his city... Truly, Strega thinks, a man becomes something else altogether when he has nothing left to live for.

 

“It doesn't matter now.” Nero's reply is almost too soft for Strega to hear, but the almost wistful tone is not lost on him. Turning back to the sea, Nero chuckles low in his throat, asking, “What do you think? Is it time to go, Angelo?”

 

Strega's eyes narrow and he casts a glance around, but no one is there. No sign of Angelo Lagusa to be found. “What are you rambling about?” Strega snaps, momentarily forgetting the cold unease he had felt meeting Nero's eyes. “Where is Lagusa, anyway?”

 

“He'll be here soon,” Nero offers, repeating softly, “He'll be here soon.”

 

\--

 

Nero stacks the cans neatly on the little table, right up against the wall. It would be enough to last them for another week, maybe two. Then the'd have to move on. Probably.

 

Settling down in the only chair in the little cabin, Nero pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking a long drag. As the nicotine floods his lungs, he can already feel himself relaxing, and his eyes almost naturally slide to where Angelo is lying on the bed. Sighing deeply, Nero rubs at the back of his head, feeling the weight of the silence more heavily than maybe ever before. Taking another drag, he feels a little bold, or a little desperate, and just begins to talk.

 

“You know, I'd never even thought of going to see the ocean until you mentioned it. I was pretty satisfied with everything I had in Lawless. Heh... It's funny, you know. To think that I was so worried about everything that was happening in that little city and never stopped to think that there was a whole world out here, just waiting to be seen. Maybe I should have traveled more. There's only so much that Illinois can offer. But I guess... well, I just never thought about it. Too busy trying to convince Frate to go skinny dipping or stealing booze from Uncle's cabinet, trying to make dad proud.” Nero looks down at his hand, considering all the good and terrible things it had done. It shakes a little as he raises the cigarette to his lips again, letting the smoke slip slowly from between his lips. “It's strange. Now that I've lost everything, I feel more free than ever. As if... some sort of crushing weight's been lifted of my shoulders. But... shouldn't I feel guilty? I mean, I should have protected them, all of them. But...” He puts out the cigarette in a used bean can, standing to walk over to the bed. Sliding up behind Angelo, Nero's not all that surprised at how cold he is. Tugging another blanket up over them, Nero wraps his arms around the smaller man, burying his face into the hair and the nape of his neck. He murmurs, “I'm just so tired, Angelo.”

 

But Angelo stays silent.

 

\--

 

Frustrated now, Strega decides it's time to put an end to this foolishness. Drawing his pistol from its holster, he pulls the hammer back with an audible click, pointing it at the back of Nero's head. “Well, I don't see anyone coming for you, Vanetti, so I suppose we should finish our business.” When Nero doesn't react, Strega grits his teeth, almost snarling, “Hope you've said your prayers.”

 

The gunshot echoes across the nearly still waves, short and anticlimactic.

 

Strega frowns. He's disappointed, in all honesty; he'd been expecting Nero to put up more of a fight, go out with a bang. As he looks down at the slumped body of the last Vanetti, Strega feels like he lost somehow. A short shout draws his attention away from Nero's body, and he takes a moment to school his expression.

 

“Boss! We, uh, found where he was stayin'...”

 

Strega raises an eyebrow at the uneasy look on his man's face, gesturing for him to lead the way. As they struggle up the little sand dune, Strega lets his mind wander, wondering what could have happened in these past few weeks to have caused Nero Vanetti to become so broken. If he was being honest, Strega's pretty sure that Nero could have outrun them for as long as he wanted. So, what had happened to cause such a determined man to just give up?

 

\--

 

“Hey, Angelo?” Nero knows he won't get a response, but it's worth a try anyway. He's sitting on the floor, back pressed up against the bed frame as he stares out the window at the slowly setting sun. A cigarette is tucked loosely between his lips, slowly burning down to nothing. “I've always wondered what it'd be like to die. Am I gonna see everyone? Frate, Vanno... You think they're gonna be up there, living in the clouds all angelic, like they talk about in church?” He chuckles a bit, snubbing the cigarette out on the floorboards. “Heh, well, Vanno's probably not up  _ there _ , but I'm sure Frate is. No matter what he did in the end, he was the only one of us who ever went to mass regularly.”

 

On the bed, Angelo is silent.

 

“I guess... I guess that'd be nice. Maybe. But... do you think it's like the say? With the white light and salvation and all that? Because, well, it seems like a load of bullshit to me. Like a kid's story you tell to keep from being afraid at night.” Nero pulls out his pack of cigarettes, knocking out the last one with a little sigh. Lighting it up, he takes a drag, watching the end flare in the near darkness. “Nah. I don't buy it. There's no paradise. Not for me, anyway.”

 

\--

 

A little cabin came into view as they crested the dune, an unfamiliar car parked beside it. Strega was sure it was not the car Nero had fled Lawless in, probably stolen along the way. He wonders if that had been Angelo Lagusa's doing. It had quite honestly been a disappointment when they had returned from the Island to find that Nero had kidnapped Lagusa and fled town. Strega had thought of several ways he could put the young man to use, clever as he was. He'd been impressed with how Lagusa had manipulated Nero and Vincent, culminating in the murder of Strega's uncle and the inevitable destruction of the Vanetti at the hands of the Galassia. It was truly a stroke of genius, and it would have been a crime not to consider welcoming the young man into their ranks.

 

As Strega's man leads him closer to the cabin, he can't help but wrinkle his nose at some sort of rancid smell permeating the air. The stench only grows as they approach, and Strega is forced to cup his hand over his nose and mouth just to breathe. The two men standing beside the door look ill, faces pale as they make a point of not looking in the windows. A cold, horrible sensation grips Strega's stomach as he walks past the men, pushing his way in through the screen door. The interior is a single room, with a small table and a single chair pushed up against one wall and a little wood-burning stove in the corner. Open cans, beans and pineapple, are scattered around. Nero's coat hangs on the back of the chair. Inside, the smell is even stronger, and Strega pulls out a handkerchief to press over his nose. When he turns to look at the lone bed, he has to choke down the vomit that rises in his throat.

 

A body, or what was once a body, is lying across the mattress, the severely decomposed flesh seeming to melt off the bones. Flies buzz around the holes where eyes once were, while the wriggling bodies of maggots can be made out beneath the quickly liquefying skin. Struggling to maintain composure, Strega searches the corpse for anything which might identify the body, though he's fairly sure he already knows. There's not much, just the rotting blanket the body was wrapped in, but when he glances down at the floor, he catches sight of a familiar cap. Strega's stomach twists uncomfortably, and he takes one last look before rushing back outside.

 

After thoroughly emptying his stomach beside the stolen car, Strega tries in vain to gather his thoughts, but the image of Angelo Lagusa's body is already seared into his mind.


End file.
